In Hays, Steven pulled into an all-night Wal-Mart and used more of Arthur Mikelson’s cash to buy a book of stamps, a wool cap, a heavy-knit scarf and a black magic marker. In a motel car park just off the exit ramp, he used the crescent wrench to remove licence plates from an Illinois SUV loaded with ski equipment. He placed those tags on a pick-up truck from Michigan. The Michigan plates he traded with a Pontiac from New Jersey with a guitar in the back seat and gave the Jersey plates to an old Cadillac from Nebraska, then put the Nebraska tags on the Lexus and tossed the Missouri plates into a nearby dumpster. He hoped the morning confusion over who had whose licence plates would buy him an additional few hours’ travel time and perhaps even be discounted as a group of local boys having late night fun.
Outside Colby he pulled off the highway, gassed up the Lexus for the final time, placed the entire book of stamps on the padded envelope and, with the car running, fell asleep in a brambly draw between two corn fields.
Steven cried when the Denver skyline came into view late the following afternoon. With the sun drifting west over Mt Evans, it was hard to look at the city without hurting his eyes, but he didn’t care. Whether the tears came for joy at finding his way home, for the tragedy in South Carolina, or for the grim, seething hatred he held for Nerak, it didn’t make any difference. Overwhelmed, he forced himself to keep both hands on the wheel, letting go only once to flip to his favourite radio station. Second nature, even after all these months. Bruce Springsteen was singing about red-heads, and Steven Taylor rolled down the window, despite the cold, and sang along.
Later that evening, he drove north along Broadway, past Meyers Antiques. The store was boarded up, with large This Space Available for Purchase or Lease signs posted on the showroom windows. Turning east, then taking a left, he rolled slowly past Hannah Sorenson’s house. He had no intention of making contact with her, but hoped she might wander past a window, or even be outside shovelling snow. Get lucky.
But he had been lucky so far on this trip. Maybe he would find one last measure of good fortune before stepping on the far portal again. He slowed to a crawl, passed the house at less than five miles an hour, and willed Hannah to appear. The Sorenson home, a 1920s row house with a small porch and a bay window, was a red-brick clone of every other house in Grant Street. A naked light bulb illuminated the front lawn in a pallid smear, and a haphazard collection of unread newspapers dotted the stairs, the stoop, and the snowy grass. Steven sighed. No one had been home for some time – he counted the papers – at least twelve days. No sign of Hannah.
Driving through town, he was slowed by rush-hour traffic, and in his distraction at failing to spot Hannah he almost missed the afternoon DJ crying out, ‘Hey Denver, it’s finally five o’clock on this chilly Thursday. So, if you haven’t left work yet, get going! Go ahead, just leave! Here’s a classic from Zeppelin to help blow you out the door.’
Five o’clock already. Mark would be opening the far portal right now. He hoped they still had it – although since Nerak was hot on his heels, there was no reason why they wouldn’t. Gilmour would keep them safe, and as long as Nerak was on this side of the Fold, there would be little to threaten the company of Ronan partisans.
Right now he had to decide whether or not to drive the Lexus into Idaho Springs. If he did, he might be able to find Lessek’s key, open the portal and be back in Eldarn by five-fifteen the following morning. But if he ditched the car in Denver, he could take an early bus and be in Idaho Springs by late morning, giving him the time to hide his tracks a little. If he left the car in Denver, they might not trace it to him.
‘Bullshit,’ he said out loud, ‘you bought the damned plane ticket, stupid – you might as well be wearing a radar beacon. Anyway, forget the police. Concentrate on Nerak.’ Steven focused: the shutdown of the airports would have delayed him for a day, so he might have driven, or maybe taken a train. Maybe he just waited for the next flight anyway. If he’d driven, he would have made up time when Steven had been forced to sleep. A train would be slower – but that was assuming Nerak had allowed it to run on schedule. He shuddered. Who knew how quickly the dark prince could be in Denver with a runaway Amtrak? If he’d waited one day for the airports to reopen, Nerak would have picked up a two-day lead.
‘Shit. Why didn’t I think of that?’ Steven nearly drove into the guardrail in his frustration: this race was so mismatched that there was no way he could win it. Nerak would be there – how could he not? But if he had beaten Steven to Idaho Springs and retrieved Lessek’s key, then surely he would be gone by now. He hadn’t come through the portal to kill Steven – although that might have been a welcome side-effect – he’d come because he was afraid the Ronans would regain possession of the stone. If he had the key and the portal, he wouldn’t hang around. He would skip back to Eldarn, turn his wagon towards Sandcliff Palace and begin working with the spell table.
Steven made his mind up: he would spend the night in Denver and take the first bus to Idaho Springs in the morning. He pulled a U-turn and headed back towards Hannah Sorenson’s house. It might be a long night, but he would stand vigil. Phoning was not enough; he wanted to see her.
Around midnight, Steven went to find a drink, smiling wanly to himself when he realised he actually missed Garec’s tecan. How bizarre was that, after spending months pining for good coffee! He yawned despite the caffeine, then took out a piece of notepaper and scratched a letter to Arthur Mikelson.
Arthur,
Thank you for the use of your car. I hope you find it in good condition other than the scratch on the side. Although, I did throw your licence plates in the Missouri River. Sorry. It is parked in the stadium lot between 23rd Avenue and Union Station in Denver, Colorado. If you are unable to pick it up soon, I am sure it will be towed, but there are signs in the parking lot telling you how to get in touch with the towing company. I owe you $400, and when my circumstances change, I will get that to you, plus something for your trouble. You will find the contents of your wallet intact. I did not use your ID or attempt to use your credit cards. Your T-shirt and exercise clothes are in the trunk. I have kept your address and will get the money back to you as soon as possible.
Thanks.
Steven didn’t sign the note, but folded the paper around the wallet and tucked it into the padded envelope. He’d add the keys once he’d parked the car, then mail it back to Charleston at the bus station.
That done, Steven turned his attention back to Hannah’s house. He looked at the array of newspapers lying forlornly on the porch. ‘She’s not coming,’ he heard himself say. ‘She’s there. The blackhearted bastard was telling the truth.’ He would wait another two hours, just in case. Two hours – and then he would go back, and he would take up the hickory staff, and he would face Nerak. He had spent three days trying to forget the screaming baby on board Express Airlines flight 182 and the carnage that had unfolded behind him that day, but now he allowed those images back. He could almost feel them seep into his bone marrow and fester there like an infection. He might regret it later, but he wanted to hear that baby screaming when he finally gutted Nerak and sent what passed for his soul in pieces to the furthest corner of Eldarn’s hell.
THE FJORD
Mark Jenkins awakened to the sound of a gull squawking at the passing boat. The high-pitched caws reminded him of summers at Jones Beach. For a moment he thought there was something significant he was supposed to remember, something about the beach, or Long Island, then he let the notion fade. There would be time later to dwell on it.